It has been a rough couple of weeks. Oriel, who died 2/22, and whom I imagine running across an endless dog beach in the sky,  has, in less than 10 days,  acquired  the company of two other dogs from my extended family. We were all multi-dog households, so my mom, my aunt, and I were spared the emptiness of a dogless house, but we each feel the loss of our friends very deeply.

No dog is like any other, and no two dogs fill the same role in our lives and our families. We love each dog differently, appreciating (and sometimes lamenting) who they are as individuals. No dog who’s been loved for him- or herself  can be replaced by some other “equivalent” four-footed bundle of fur and personality.

Some dogs are so easy to love. Oriel embodied everything people idealize about dogs. Quiet, affectionate, optimistic and adventurous — and always eager to help — Oriel was a walking teddy bear. She was always happy to cuddle and be cuddled; she gave hugs and patted us back, gently, with her paw. Her “sister,” opinionated, vocal Jana, will accept petting and cuddling only on her terms and in her time. Wylie loves to be petted and stroked, but he demands it and lacks Oriel’s gentle softness in accepting our touch.

Buddy, my mom’s little terrier, and Shaina, my aunt’s beagle mix, filled the “Oriel” role — asking for and eagerly accepting tummy rubs, leaning against someone found to be  sharing “their” sofa, seeking out our company and our touch. The remaining dogs in their households are more like Jana when it comes to being petted.

Wanting someone to snuggle with is a big reason we share our homes with dogs, but it’s certainly not the only one — and different cuddle styles are far from the only individual differences among our dogs. Some dogs are obsessed with food; others are obsessed with toys. Some love to go for meandering walks, sniffing every tuft and leaf; others are athletes eager for a three-mile run. Some live only to please us humans; others believe they would do a far better job of running things if only we’d get out of their way.

Dogs’ individual differences are as varied and complex as humans’. That’s why Bergin University, where I teach, pays so much attention to matching the service dogs it trains with people whose personalities are a close match. An outgoing, athletic person will not enjoy a twenty-four-hour-a-day partnership with a couch-potato dog. A person who craves a cuddler will be disappointed with a service dog who is all business and only grudgingly accepts petting.

While our pet dogs do not have to be as close a match as a service dog, compatibility still helps . We certainly find some dogs easier to live with and manage than others. Dog people tend to build relationships with lots of dogs with lots of different personalities over our lifetimes, and, if we’re lucky, we learn to find the ones who best match our personalities and lifestyles. Regardless, learning to adapt to the peculiarities of our canine family members helps us become more tolerant of the humans who share our lives.

Whatever role a specific dog plays in our life, it’s always hard to lose a friend. Knowing that there are many more wonderful dogs out there who would love to be part of the family  is no comfort. Each dog is as unique and irreplaceable as each person. Each earns a unique place in our hearts. And the death of each one leaves an empty space in our lives.

I first met Mav in the prime of his life. At six, he was full of energy, loved going for a walk, and was always eager to bring you his toys — you could ask for them by name — especially if there might be a cookie available for him as part of the deal.

But Mav was more than an ordinary, fun-loving Labrador, “of the Colorado Labradors,” his mom, Sally, liked to say. Mav was a true “old soul” with an almost tangible presence and personality.

He was great company, and never more so than after a long day or when I was feeling frustrated or sad. Stroking his velvet ears could make even the worst day fade away. He always knew what people needed, too.

Once, when Sally’s brother had died and she was visiting with her brother-in-law, Mav picked up on the man’s grief. Lying on his bed by the fire, he looked up at the visitor, head cocked, thinking. He then went to the bedroom and brought his favorite toy, his prized hedgehog, and laid it in the man’s lap. Then, one by one, Mav brought all of his toys and placed them at the grieving visitor’s feet. Here, he seemed to be saying, cuddling these helps me feel better; maybe they’ll help you, too.

The first time I shared a home with Sally and Mav, I was learning to train service dogs, and I nearly always had a puppy home with me overnight and on weekends. A gentle soul, Mav was a great big brother and always eager to join our walks and playtimes. But when I got out the service dog cape to take my puppy on a practice trip to the supermarket or store, Mav would stand there and cry. He knew that the cape meant that he didn’t get to come, and he just hated being left out.

Mav had a special place in his heart for puppies, and was very gentle as he played and wrestled with my service dog trainees, always careful not to use his full strength and endlessly patient. As the puppies got older, they’d make up games together — one pup in particular loved to play tug. For this dog, Mav would lie on his back, holding the tug toy in his mouth. Irresistible. The adolescent puppy would grab the other end, and away they’d go, Mav sliding around the living room on his back, as happy as he could be.

One puppy in particular captured Mav’s heart though. Yasu.
A petite blonde, about eight months old when they first met, she had the airs of a princess. We called her the “Marilyn Monroe dog.” She knew she had been put on this earth to be adored and served — not to be a service dog. And Mav adored her, gazing at her, besotted, as she took away his favorite toys, nibbled at his mouth, and perched on his special bed next to the fireplace.

Mav left us a couple of weeks ago, at the age of fifteen and a half. Sally had nursed him through several serious illnesses, lovingly preparing him tasty meals and, ultimately, encouraging this always-food-obsessed dog to eat. Finally, though, it was time to say good-bye. Fifteen years wasn’t long enough. Mav was a special guy and he will be missed by many people whose lives he touched.

We humans have an uncanny ability to notice what we don’t like. Just look at all the nasty comments posted online, or listen to people’s conversations. Sometimes, it seems that all we ever do is complain about the dumb things other people did or said. We jump on people for every mistake they make. We do it to our dogs, too. We always notice when they are barking at the deer in the yard or they jump onto the sofa, uninvited. We yell, criticize, complain, even punish.

Old-school training methods emphasize punishment. Rub your puppy’s nose in it if he pees in the house. Smack your dog with a rolled-up newspaper. Put him in a crate for a time-out if he is mouthy. Knee him in the chest for jumping up to greet you. Shock him for barking or for crossing some invisible line that is supposed to separate “his” territory from the rest of the world.

As I wrote in Reward or Punishment?, we all can learn from negative consequences that a particular behavior was not a good choice. Yes, a dog can learn what not to do through punitive “training” methods. But that information doesn’t often help him figure out what would be a better or the correct choice of action. There might be a lot of other options, and most of them might be equally wrong. Punishing a dog who hasn’t been taught what the right behavior is, is unfair. And, even when we know what is wanted of us, we all make mistakes.

Instead of jumping on every mistake, positive training focuses on eliciting or teaching behaviors that we want the dog to engage in — and rewarding them.

Some people use targeting or a lure to elicit a behavior. This could be as simple as patting your leg to encourage a puppy to come to you or having the dog follow a treat held above his nose to get him to sit or lie down.

Some use shaping, which is waiting for the dog to do something that might barely resemble the behavior you want, and rewarding that, then slowly raising the bar until you get the desired behavior. An example is teaching your dog to turn left. You might first reward a tiny glance to the left. Then a longer glance. A slight head turn. A half-turn of the head. A full head turn. Etc. Until the dog turns left.

What is most important about these teaching techniques is that if the dog guesses wrong, turning his head to the right, say, rather than the left, or backing up instead of sitting — you don’t do anything. No scolding or yelling, no “correction” or punishment. You simply change position and try again.

If the worst consequence to getting it wrong is that the puppy doesn’t get the treat — but he immediately gets to try again, making mistakes is safe. He’ll soon learn that trying different ways to do something until he gets it right is not only safe but it’s fun. That will make him more likely to guess again than if the consequence of an incorrect guess is painful or unpleasant. He’ll also be more willing to try new things — which teaches him to think and problem solve. Don’t you want a thinking dog?

A response to a previous post accused me of being “painfully obvious in your contempt for any form of training outside of rewards or ( +R ) only” and ill-informed and biased to boot. I feel compelled to respond.

Anyone who thinks that any training (or life) can be wholly positive is wholly mistaken. Life delivers consequences, sometimes for actions taken intentionally and sometimes simply by chance. Some of the consequences are pleasant, some are not. There is no way to ensure that my life, my dog’s life, or the life of any dog I am training will be aversive-free. And, I believe that we all learn from the consequences of our actions, whether those consequences are pleasant or not. So, yes, I do believe that we, and our dogs, can learn from aversives. If we get burned, we are more careful around a hot stove. That said, I believe that, as a teaching tool, using aversives is unnecessary and cruel — and a lot less effective than other methods.

Behaviorism identifies four “paths” of learning through consequences, or four types of behavior-consequence pairs. What my critic referred to as “+R” is positive reinforcement, rewarding a behavior in hopes of encouraging the dog (or person or goldfish …) to repeat it. This is the foundation of motivational training. But some of the other three behavior-consequence pairs are useful too. Few trainers use only one; I would go so far as to argue that it is impossible.

What are the other three?

Next up is negative reinforcement.

Since this is often confused with another type, negative punishment, I’ll offer an easy way to sort out the four types. Dr. Pamela Reid, an outstanding trainer and behaviorist, and one of my teachers, explains it this way: “Positive” means you add something; “negative” means you take something away. “Reinforcement” makes a behavior more likely to be repeated; “punishment” makes it less likely.

Thus negative reinforcement (like positive reinforcement) is likely to cause the dog to offer a behavior again, but instead of giving the dog a reward (positive reinforcement), you are taking away something that the dog doesn’t like. Our dogs use this on us all the time; they get us to play with or feed them by bugging us until we do. By performing the desired behavior (feeding) we end the negative (heads jostling our hands when we’re trying to type and sad-eyed faces resting in our laps).

So what is negative punishment? Well, it’s punishment, so it makes a behavior less likely to recur. And it’s negative, so it means taking something away. Here’s an example: when our shepherd gets mouthy and rough during play with a ball or Frisbee, I warn him once not to touch me. The next time his mouth touches my hand, the game ends. Ending play early is a punishment to him; I am taking away something he wants. It does make the mouthy behavior less likely to recur; he is always more careful the next several times we play.

The fourth pair is positive punishment. This is adding something that will make behavior less likely to be repeated. Kneeing a dog in the chest for jumping up on you is a common example. This is the one pair I try hard not to use in teaching or training.

I have studied learning theory and behaviorism, and I have applied this knowledge in training hundreds of puppies. I have also studied the effects of punishment. Based on both my research and my experience, I firmly believe that the best way to teach new skills or encourage desired behaviors is through motivation and reinforcing those behaviors. But this is not always practical, and, in some situations, negative punishment can also be useful.

I also believe that anyone who chooses to use positive punishment must think carefully about the consequences and the alternatives. There might be situations in dog training where it is justified, but these are few and only, I think, when a dog’s or a person’s life or safety is in jeopardy. I cannot justify the routine use of positive punishment as a part of my training toolkit.

Motivating and encouraging a dog to do something tells the dog what you want — and rewards him when he gets it right. This is knowledge he can apply in the future and generalize to learning new behaviors and skills. Simply punishing him for getting it wrong tells him what not to do — but for every one behavior we are looking for, there might be hundreds of wrong guesses. Punishing each wrong guess is not going to give the dog information that steers him toward the right answer, but it might shut him down and discourage him from trying.

Kneeing your dog in the chest for jumping up in greeting, the example given above, can be harmful to the dog. It almost certainly harms your relationship with your dog. It might teach the dog not to jump on you in greeting. What it does not do is teach him how you want him to greet you. He might try barking wildly as his next guess. Not an improvement.

Your dog jumps because it is a normal doggy way to greet, because he’s happy to see you, because he wants attention. But, since you are the human and, at least in theory, you are in charge, you can decide that you’d rather he bring you a toy or sit next to you or walk around you in a circle when you get home. You can use positive reinforcement to teach the dog to do that, rewarding him, let’s say, with treats and attention each time he sits quietly to greet you. You can add in some negative punishment by ignoring him when he jumps. Soon enough, the dog will learn that to get your attention, he needs to sit next to you, not jump. You’ve not only reduced or eliminated the bad behavior, you’ve replaced it with a good one, all without hurting your dog. In the process, you have probably had fun with your dog, and you have improved communication with him and probably strengthened your bond as well — not a bad return on your investment of a little of your time and a handful of dog biscuits.

We’d been congratulating ourselves all summer on the absence of rodent roommates in our Montana residence when, on their first night here, our visiting friends spotted a mouse. Out came the mouse traps, baited with peanut butter. Out came the baby gates, keeping the dogs away from the traps.

A couple of mornings later, forgetting that there were still traps out, I let Jana come downstairs with me. Zeroing in on the scent of peanut butter, Jana beelined for its source. SNAP!

Jana’s head jerked back, then her nose immediately moved forward again, seeking and finding the now disarmed peanut butter. Once she’d licked the snapped trap clean, she hunted for others. A week later, she was still checking that area of the office for traps, uh, peanut butter, every morning.

Though I have no doubt that her reaction would have been different if the snapping trap had actually nipped her nose (she might have taken a full minute to recover before going for the peanut butter) the experience reminded me of why I so strongly dislike invisible fences:

If a dog’s motivation to go after something is strong enough, a moment of shock or pain will not deter her.

The thorough training that is supposed to — but rarely does — accompany the installation of invisible fencing should, it is claimed, teach the dog to avoid the “fence” so as to avoid receiving an electric shock. The dog is fitted with a collar that normally gives a warning beep if the dog approaches the underground wire that makes up the “fence.” The collar is supposed to deliver a shock only if the dog ignores the warning. Leaving aside the issues of malfunctioning fences and collars, this system rarely works as perfectly as the salespeople describe.

For some dogs, the experience of the shock, felt during “training” is enough to deter the dog from ever again approaching the perimeter of the yard. (For some dogs its enough to deter them from going outside at all, and it can have even worse effects, too, but that’s another blog.) But dogs who are that easily deterred are rational enough to be taught to stay in the yard without shocking them. For many other dogs, the shock wouldn’t work.

For instance, take a dog like Jana, who is highly motivated by food. A moment of pain isn’t much of a deterrence. She’d cross an invisible fence in a heartbeat if someone on the other side proffered a spoonful of peanut butter.

A more likely scenario arises with dogs like Wylie, dogs who love to run and chase things. These dogs would be unlikely to consider — or even notice — the shock as they flew across the yard and over the boundary, in hot pursuit of a running cat, deer, or other fleeing animal. This dog might, however, think twice about coming back into the yard on his return home after the chase. Winded, walking more slowly, he’d approach the “fence,” hear the warning beep, and, quite likely, decide that going home wasn’t worth the pain.

An additional problem with invisible fences is, of course, that anything at all — the mean dog from down the street, a cat, a coyote — can get into the yard and harass or harm the resident dog, who cannot run away without being “punished.”

So. An invisible fence doesn’t keep your dog safe and won’t contain the sort of dog who most needs strong boundaries. The only thing that can do that is a lot of (humane) training and a watchful human on the premises.

If you’re wondering what happened to the mouse, he (she?) was electrocuted while chewing through the wires to a bathroom light fixture, shorting out the light in the process. No rodent friends or relatives have been spotted, and the light has been replaced.